


Cortege

by deadlifts



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Emotional Baggage, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23179447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlifts/pseuds/deadlifts
Summary: During a battle, Felix is hit with experimental magic that will slowly kill him unless he has sex with someone. This leads to some awkward conversations with the Blue Lions, who only want to help. Meanwhile, Sylvain is notably absent, offering none of his usual banter to combat this difficult situation.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 40
Kudos: 460





	Cortege

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of slow burn fuck or die. The fucking doesn’t actually start happening until about 7k words in. 
> 
> Warnings: The fuck or die trope involves dubcon by nature of forcing someone to have sex to live, so please consider that before reading. The Blue Lions try to be helpful in this, but that leads to some uncomfortable moments for everyone involved (incl. unwanted advances). The dying part of this involves fever, weakness, lightheadedness, etc. Felix experiences some anxiety and there’s also some exploration of Sylvain’s unhealthy relationship with sex.

“I don’t feel different.” 

Felix sits on an infirmary bed, looking down at his empty hands so he doesn’t have to look into the three pairs of eyes that stare at him with various degrees of concern. 

“You don’t now,” Manuela says with a sigh. In the periphery of his vision, he sees her move away from the bed to retrieve a vial from a cabinet. “Give it a few days.” 

“What Manuela is trying to say,” Hanneman pipes up. He clears his throat before continuing. “Is you will feel fine for the first day or two, but your condition will worsen after that. 

“And the only way to fix it...” Felix prompts, still focused on his hands. He wants his sword. He wants to be anywhere but here. 

No one answers. He looks up. 

Manuela sighs again, fiddling with the vial. Hanneman avoids his gaze. The professor meets his stare without fanfare. “Is to have sex,” they finish for him, no embarrassment in their tone. 

Felix curls his hands into fists. He tries to take a steadying breath, but it catches in his throat. “Ridiculous,” he hisses through his teeth. 

“It’s experimental magic.” Hanneman appears more comfortable once he reverts back to explanation. “Theoretically, it shouldn’t be possible, but it seems that the Empire’s researchers are more advanced than we are here in Garreg Mach. It’s fascinating, really.” 

Manuela snorts. “Fascinating,” she repeats, tone flat. “Don’t listen to him. It’s horrible, taking away your choice like that. It serves no purpose other than to torture you.” 

“The point,” Hanneman emphasizes, “is to test it on subjects so the magic can be refined and used as a tool. Or a weapon.” 

“It could be worse,” the professor unhelpfully supplies, ignoring the budding argument. “All you have to do is pick someone. I’m sure your friends will be willing to assist, if it means saving your life.” 

Felix’s fingernails dig into his palms. The professor has the emotional awareness of a rock; of course they think this is no big deal. “That’s enough.” He stands and attempts to walk past them, but Manuela steps in his way. 

“Please do yourself a favor and have sex with someone.” She holds out the vial. “But if you decide to be stubborn and become symptomatic, take this, then come see me.” There’s no innuendo in her tone, but Felix still jerks his hand back when her fingers brush against his as he takes the elixir away from her. 

“I need a drink,” Manuela mutters as she steps out of his way. 

Felix heads straight to the training grounds. 

* * *

Rumors travel quickly in Garreg Mach, and Felix’s ‘condition’ is no exception. He had been hit with the magic early enough during the battle that everyone witnessed him fall and fail to get back up. He remained unconscious long enough that everyone had worried for him. And come the morning after his conversation in the infirmary, he has been diagnosed long enough that everyone has heard of his predicament. 

At first, Felix thinks he’s going to get away with only a few pitying glances cast in his direction. Then the whispers start, which irk him but are ignored easily enough. 

Then Dimitri happens, and it’s all downhill from there. 

It’s the third time they’ve sparred since reuniting at Garreg Mach; the third time since Gronder and the death of his father; the third time since Felix decided to try to rein himself in long enough to allow Dimitri to regain some footing. 

It’s the first time Dimitri doesn’t hold back. 

He doesn’t fight like the boar. This is something else, something emotional and determined, as though Dimitri is trying to shove past internal hesitancy as he strikes with his lance. Each step that Felix tries to take is wrong; he’s shoved backward, further and further, until his back is against a pillar and Dimitri’s one eye is boring into him, the grimace on his face eclipsing the training grounds until it is all Felix can see. 

“What are you doing?” Felix seethes. Dimitri’s lance is set across his chest, holding him in place. Felix tries to wriggle enough to fit his sword between them, but Dimitri will not allow himself to be pushed away. 

“Felix,” Dimitri murmurs mournfully. 

Felix watches in horror as Dimitri eases off the lance to extend his hand toward his face. 

“What —” Felix tries to ask again, with more energy this time, but then Dimitri _touches_ him, and he loses his words. 

Calloused fingers brush his cheek with a subdued tenderness. Sweaty hair is moved out of his eyes and tucked behind his ear. The warmth of another body presses against him. 

He hears breathing, in and out, too fast to be relaxed. His face burns. 

He sees Dimitri, still mournful but determined in a way he hasn’t been since coming back to himself. He looks half-boar, half-wretched human. Felix stares agape. Felix cannot move. 

“Felix,” Dimitri murmurs again, and then tries to kiss him. 

Felix’s body reacts before his mind does. His crest flares within him and he drives his sword between himself and Dimitri, shoves him back so hard that Dimitri, caught off guard, loses footing. He falls. 

Felix does not tower over Dimitri, not even like this, with Dimitri on the ground and Felix enraged above him. Dimitri’s one eye is fixed on him, filled with emotion, but all Felix can see is _pity_ , stark and unwavering. 

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Felix shakes as he raises his sword. He presses it against Dimitri’s neck and thinks of blood. 

Dimitri takes a breath before responding, his chest heaving up and down. “I want to help you,” he admits slowly. “I thought —” 

“This isn’t your kingly duty,” Felix spits. He cannot still the tremor in his hand, not even as he presses the blade into the skin of Dimitri’s throat. He wants to rip off his face, to tear into the flesh where Dimitri touched him. He will _not_ be patronized, marred, treated like someone’s royal responsibility. 

He will _not_ allow the boar to look at him like that. 

“I thought it would be easier for you, if it were me,” Dimitri tells him. Even on the floor with a sword at his neck, he manages to look regal as he speaks, collected and calm as though he wasn’t stalking the halls of Garreg Mach like a blood-hungry beast mere weeks ago. 

Felix hates it. Felix hates him. 

“You can be rough with me,” Dimitri offers. 

Disturbed and thoroughly unsettled, Felix nearly reels back. Instead, he fights the urge and presses the blade deeper into Dimitri’s skin, holding himself there, tense with rage and a growing sense of helplessness. “Don’t project your fantasies onto me,” he finally bites out, though his voice weakens before he finishes the sentence. 

When he pulls back his sword to put it in his belt, he has trouble getting it into his sheathe. He misses twice, then finally storms out with the naked blade in hand, refusing to look back when Dimitri calls for him. 

* * *

Ingrid is next. 

She finds him in the dining hall picking at a slab of meat. It’s tasteless and feels like dirt in his mouth, but Felix doesn’t know if that’s due to the magic residing within his body or the nausea that accompanies the memory of Dimitri’s touch. 

Ingrid takes a long look at him and then sets her plate down across from him in one fluid motion filled with intent. “How do you feel?” she asks, leveling him with motherly concern for the first time in years. 

Felix doesn’t make eye contact. “Fine.” He cuts into his meat and bites, rote and unmoved. 

Ingrid sighs, the air forced out of her lungs with so much exasperation, it’s a wonder it doesn’t hurt her chest. “I’m only going to say this once.” 

“Don’t say it at all,” Felix warns her, clutching his fork a little tighter. He shovels another piece of meat in his mouth and bites his cheek in the process of chewing. It stings, but not as much as Ingrid’s next reply. 

“I will not allow you to die.” She reaches forward to the fist that Felix has made with his free hand and places her palm over it. It feels warm and comforting, at a time when it should repulse him. “If you don’t want to ask anyone else, then I am willing —” 

“Don’t.” Felix wants to pull his hand back. He wants to throw his plate across the room. 

“Then I am willing,” Ingrid repeats, ignoring his protests. The words seem rehearsed on her tongue, as though she stood in front of a mirror and said them until she knew she wouldn’t balk — as though she anticipated Felix would try to stop her from speaking, and so she practiced barreling through his protests. “To be the person to help you.” 

Ingrid’s mouth is set in an unhappy line. Felix can see it in the edge of his vision. She is staring. She looks like the Ingrid of his past, the one who would hold his hand and guide him around the castle grounds in search of Dimitri, the one who believed Glenn was the answer to all her problems, the one who wiped his tears with her shirt whenever he was ashamed of crying. 

He wants to hate Ingrid, but he finds he cannot, and that knowledge upsets him to such a degree that when he pulls his hand away from hers, he accidentally knocks his plate off the table. It clatters to the ground and everyone in the dining hall looks at them. Ingrid’s cheeks color, but she still does not look away. 

“You can’t be stubborn about this,” Ingrid says as Felix stands. The strength has left her voice; she’s pleading now. “Felix, please.” 

Felix leans across the table. He looks Ingrid in the eye. When he speaks, there’s so much spite in his tone that it sears his tongue. “This has nothing to do with you.” 

When he turns to leave, he notices Sylvain in the doorway, watching him. Felix refuses to acknowledge him. He leaves Ingrid to worry and Sylvain to clean up his mess. 

* * *

Felix wakes up on the second day still feeling like himself. 

The feeling only lasts until he opens his door to head to the training grounds and finds Ashe waiting, looking unsure as he fumbles with a book. “Oh, Felix. I didn't know you were awake.” 

“I’m always awake at this time,” Felix replies flatly. “I train every morning.” 

“Right, of course.” Ashe attempts to smile. It’s unconvincing. Felix considers forgoing training so he can effectively end this conversation by slamming the door. 

Instead, he asks, “Do you need something?” 

“It’s just...” Ashe grips his book tighter. “I heard that a few people were trying to help you and that you...you know.” 

“I don’t know," he replies, a warning in his tone. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Ashe shakes his head like he’s trying to clear away the previous topic. He then adopts a determined expression and holds out the book. “I brought this for you.” 

Felix drops his eyes to the book, then looks back up at Ashe, even less interested in this conversation than he was a moment prior. “Why would I want a book?” 

“It’s about a knight,” Ashe begins, but when he sees Felix’s expression change, hurries to clarify. “Not one of those stories like you’re thinking. This one is about a knight that ends up in a situation like the one you’re in. He stumbles into a field of flowers while on a mission and they make him feel really strange. The healers —” 

Felix steps past Ashe without taking the book. “I’m not reading that junk,” he says as he begins walking away. 

“I think it could help you decide what to do!” Ashe calls after him. “The knight had to make a choice —” 

“No,” Felix mutters as he leaves. 

Ashe sighs but doesn’t try to follow, so Felix is able to head to the training grounds without further incident. 

When he returns to his room later that day, the book is propped up against his door. Felix has no choice but to take it into his room. 

* * *

After lunch, Felix finds Annette. 

He wants a moment of peace and simplicity without the complication of his current situation, so he seeks company from the one person who shouldn’t offer him the remedy he needs. He assumes Annette will avoid the topic of his condition because she has enough trouble discussing her secret hobby; he can’t imagine she’d want to endure anything more awkward than banter over her singing. 

When he finds her in the library, she isn’t singing her cheerful songs. Instead, she’s quietly reading in a corner, tucked away so efficiently Felix nearly misses her. 

“Annette,” he greets her as he approaches. 

Her eyes widen and she stands up so quickly, the book tumbles out of her hand and to the floor. “Felix!” she squeaks. “What are you doing here?” 

“You aren’t singing today,” he observes. 

“No.” She bends down to pick up the book. “I’m reading. Wait...is that why you came here? To catch me singing again?” She straightens and puts her free hand on her hip, ready to scold him. 

“Maybe, maybe not.” 

Her indignance fades just as quickly as it flared. She drops her hand and sets the book on the table. “I’m not really in the singing mood.” 

This is the opposite of what Felix wanted from Annette. He frowns, folding his arms. “I see.” 

Annette drops her eyes and inhales sharply, like she’s gathering the nerve to say something. 

“You’re not going to offer to help me, are you?” Felix asks before she can voice what is on her mind, now regretting his decision to look for Annette. It was stupid moment of weakness, and he has the impression that he’s about to pay for it. He can feel a headache forming behind his eyes as he braces himself for her answer. 

“Oh no!” Annette hurries to respond. “No way!” 

Felix hadn’t expected that, either. “Oh.” It should be a relief, but he’s now a little uncomfortable with how adamantly she reacted to the prospect, as if she can’t stand the idea. 

Annette seems to realize how that comes across, because she adds in a rush, “Unless, I mean, if you wanted it to be me, then...” 

“I don’t,” Felix tells her. He brought this on himself. He should have just kept his mouth shut and stayed away from everyone, Annette included. Now he’s made her uncomfortable. 

He’s made them _both_ uncomfortable. He feels overly warm and stifled in the library. 

“Oh, thank the Goddess,” Annette breathes, sagging against a chair. “Sorry, Felix, I really am, it’s just, I don’t think of you that way, you know?” She smiles at him sheepishly. “But I do care about you, so if you really wanted me to...” 

“I don’t,” Felix firmly repeats. He should feel embarrassed for putting them both through this, or at least irritated that every conversation he’s had over the past few days has gone terribly awry, but all he feels is vaguely ill. He leans against the table, steadying himself with a hand. 

“Are you okay?” Annette asks. She steps closer. 

“Fine,” Felix says, though he feels dizzy and uncoordinated. He initially thinks it’s because he’s so thrown off by all of these awkward, terrible conversations, but then Annette’s cool hand brushes against his cheek and he realizes the fog in his brain is probably physical. 

It’s probably the magic. 

“You have a fever,” Annette announces. “I’m taking you to the infirmary.” She wraps her arm around his, but Felix gently pulls his arm away. 

“Manuela already gave me something to take.” 

Biting her lip, she steps back. “Are you sure you don’t want to get checked out?” 

Felix nods, inhales slowly, then pushes back from the table. 

“Want me to walk you to your room?” 

He shakes his head, unable to stand the thought of either of them enduring the topic of his unfortunate condition for a moment longer. “Go back to your reading.” 

“Felix...” Annette looks too concerned. Felix doesn’t like it, but that’s now par for the course; he hasn’t liked anything he’s received in response to his situation. 

He shakes his head again, then makes his unsteady way out of the library so he doesn’t have to keep looking at her worried expression. 

* * *

Felix downs the vial from Manuela as soon as he gets to his room. It seems to help. The fog lifts from his mind and the dizziness fades. He naps for a while, and when he wakes up, he feels ready for dinner. 

He is not, however, ready for someone to knock on his door. 

When he opens it and sees that it’s Dedue, Felix immediately shuts it again. 

Dedue’s muffled voice calls, “I will not offer to have sex with you.” 

That might be a small relief, but Felix could have easily gone his whole life without hearing Dedue talk about sex for any reason; that would have been much preferred to him bellowing out such a sentence in the dormitory hall. 

Primed with anger, he opens the door. “What do you want?” 

Dedue holds up a teapot. “This is for you.” 

Felix looks at it skeptically; against his better judgement, his initial irritation begins to wane. “What is it?” 

“Annette told me you have a fever,” Dedue explains in his usual monotone. “This tea will keep it down. For a while.” 

As usual, Felix’s initial impulse is to reject any and all help for this nightmare situation. But this is the one offer he’s been made that is actually helpful; it is also the least awkward conversation he’s had in the past two days. Instead of looking a gift pegasus in the mouth, he simply takes the teapot and says, “Thank you.” 

Dedue looks mildly surprised, which is an unusual expression for him, but his tone remains as even as ever as he says, “You are welcome.” 

Felix says, “Goodbye,” and shuts the door. 

Then he drinks some of the tea. 

* * *

There is one person who has been noticeably absent throughout this whole ordeal — one person who Felix expected to be painfully present, filled with quips and inappropriate comments, and yet who hasn’t spoken to him since the battle that caused his condition. At first, it felt like a blessing, but with each subsequent awkward conversation, Felix realizes he misses the predictability of Sylvain’s banter. If he can’t get normalcy from anyone else, he can at least count on Sylvain to share annoying anecdotes. 

After dinner, with his fever still mostly held at bay, Felix knocks on his door. He half-expects Sylvain to be somewhere else — in town, maybe, or off finding someone to pester — but to his surprise, Sylvain answers. 

Something fleeting passes over Sylvain’s face when he sees Felix. Felix wonders if he looks worse than he realizes. 

“Hey,” Sylvain says, then smiles in a way that Felix doesn’t like, the kind of smile that he uses when he is unhappy and pretending to be otherwise. They’re already getting off on the wrong foot. 

“Forget it,” Felix decides out loud, thinking to himself that he should have learned his lesson from his attempt at normal conversation with Annette. He turns to leave. 

“Wait! Where are you going?” Sylvain puts a hand on his shoulder. “I wasn’t going to say anything stupid, I swear! Why don’t you come in and sit down for a few? You look a little...” Felix tenses; Sylvain must be able to feel it, because he doesn’t finish his sentence and instead just squeezes Felix’s shoulder, lightly. 

“Fine.” Felix wrenches his shoulder away, then follows Sylvain into his room. He takes a seat in the desk chair, feeling more fatigued than he should from merely standing around the dormitory hall. 

Sylvain sits on the bed. “Are you okay?” 

Felix ignores the question. “Why weren’t you?” 

“Why wasn’t I what?” Sylvain asks, eyebrows furrowing. 

“Why weren’t you going to say anything stupid?” He feels childish for asking — for expecting Sylvain to somehow take care of this with his usual flippant attitude, an inappropriate joke, or anything that would usually run from his mouth without any real thought behind it. But it’s what Felix wants. 

“I figured it isn’t what you need right now.” A hesitancy enters Sylvain’s body language as he scoots back on the bed, setting his back against the wall and placing more distance between himself and Felix. “Is it?” 

Felix’s hands rest on his legs. He has to make a conscious effort not to dig his fingernails into them. “No,” he answers, while he thinks, _Yes_. 

“Exactly,” Sylvain says with a chuckle. “I mean, sex jokes would be pretty inconsiderate. Even I have that much sense.” 

Felix hates Sylvain for having sense the one time he wishes he didn’t. He stares at the floor. 

“Felix.” Sylvain’s voice is gentle. Careful, because he knows he’s venturing into dangerous territory. Felix doesn’t look up. “Do you want my help?” 

_Yes_ , Felix thinks against his will. But he doesn’t know how to admit that. Sylvain is supposed to figure it out. Read him, like he does sometimes, and just make it happen. 

“What could you possibly do?” is what Felix asks instead, tone harsh and disbelieving. 

Sylvain takes it in stride, as he always does. “I’ll find you a girl. I can find one tonight, real easy, so you can take care of this before it gets worse.” 

Felix feels sick again. His stomach churns and his head begins to pound. 

“I’ll handle everything. You won’t have to see her again when it’s over. Easy peasy, in and out.” 

Felix digs his fingernails into his thighs. He takes shallow breaths. His vision blurs. 

Sylvain is suddenly squatting in front of him, looking at him with open concern, his eyes wide as he places a hand on Felix’s cheek and brings him back into the present moment. “Felix,” he murmurs. “Hey, there you are. Take some deep breaths, okay?” 

Felix tries to take deep breaths. The roaring in his head dies down to a dull headache. His heart slows. 

“Have you seen Manuela?” Sylvain asks. He doesn’t pull back. His hand is still on Felix’s face. “You feel hot.” 

“I don’t want a girl,” Felix forces out. His voice is hoarse, which obscures any irritation he tries to put into his tone. 

Sylvain laughs. It sounds shaky and unsure. He releases Felix’s cheek to sit down in front of him. “Okay, sure. No girls.” 

Felix can’t explain why he feels so let down by this conversation. He understands it as much as he understands the magic that slowly draining away his life. There’s only one thing he knows, and it’s that he’s inching closer to death because he’s stubborn and the one person he thought might help is sitting on the floor babbling about girls and guys and _whatever you’re interested in, Felix, you know I won’t judge_. 

“You’re useless.” It comes out sounding cruel, even for Felix’s tongue. “All the time you’ve spent running around with people, for what?” 

Sylvain stares at him, mouth open. Felix stands, feels dizzy, and has to grab on to the chair to steady himself. 

“Wait.” Sylvain gets to his feet, steps in front of Felix so he can get a good look at him. He’s silent for a moment, assessing, trying to see what Felix cannot say. 

Finally, he seems to understand. “Do you want _my_ help? Like, for it to be me?” 

He asks it so brazenly, like it’s simple, no big deal at all. Felix tries to scowl, but he can feel heat in his cheeks that has nothing to do with his fever. 

“Don’t be stupid,” Felix mutters, looking away. 

“Look,” Sylvain says. He reaches forward to touch Felix’s cheek again, guiding him into looking back at him. “If that’s what you want, you know I’ll do it for you, no problem at all. I would have offered right away if I knew.” He huffs out a humorless chuckle, as shaky as his earlier laugh. “But — why would you want that? Knowing that I —” He waves his hand in a vague gesture that means nothing to Felix. “You know.” 

Felix turns his head, breaking contact with Sylvain’s hand. “That you’re qualified?” Felix asks with disgust. 

“Yeah,” Sylvain answers without missing a beat. “Exactly. I thought you hated that.” 

He does. He hates it and Sylvain for being it and himself for standing here feeling everything and saying nothing worthwhile. He hates being in this position and he wishes it were as easy for him as it is for Sylvain, to just fuck someone and be done with it. 

“I’m tired,” Felix says, his voice losing strength. “I can’t have this conversation anymore.” 

“It’s okay,” Sylvain assures him. “We don’t have to talk anymore. I’ll take care of you, okay? You just have to tell me it’s what you want, and I’ll help you.” 

Felix closes his eyes. He needs this to go away so he can think clearly again. So he can feel better and fight in this war. So that he doesn’t die a pointless death — something he always swore against. He gives a slight nod. 

“There you go,” Sylvain murmurs, stepping forward to speak softly near Felix’s ear. He wraps an arm around Felix and guides him to the bed, helping him to sit down. “Relax. Deep breaths, remember. I’m going to grab something and then I’ll help you.” 

Sylvain fumbles around his desk and pulls out a vial of oil. “Here it is,” he mumbles to himself as he walks over. To Felix, he says, “I’m going to get you going, then I’ll prep myself and you can get it over with. I’ll lie face down, you won’t even have to look at me.” 

Felix is aware that Sylvain has an unhealthy relationship with sex. He’s known about his proclivities long before Garreg Mach. He’s called him on it, in his own way, many times, but Felix's concern always comes out coated with spikes meant to hurt. Still, he knows that Sylvain’s view of sex is warped. 

The way he treats this situation — the way he prepares to objectify himself for Felix, without a second thought, the way he coats his hand in oil and slips it beneath the hem of Felix’s pants, without even looking up at him, like he’s a tool to be used instead of a person, instead of someone worthy of more careful treatment — it’s too much. 

It’s wrong. 

Felix shoves him back with excessive force. Sylvain lands awkwardly on his arm and winces before his practiced smile finds it way back on his face. “It’s good manners to warn a guy if you want to get a little rough.” 

“I can’t do this.” Felix stands and steps away from Sylvain. He backs up toward the door. 

Sylvain’s smile cracks; it grows wounded, the words bleeding out of him. “This is the first time anyone’s told me they’d rather die than sleep with me.” He pauses, then adds, “And meant it.” 

Felix leaves. He stumbles in front of Dimitri’s door and then collapses on the floor, unable to move further, feeling miserable because he’s dying, because all his friends are varying degrees of screwed up, and because he’s the most screwed up of them all, asking the one person who _didn’t_ willingly offer help to allow himself to be used. 

He stays on the floor until Manuela finds him, clicking her tongue disapprovingly. “Honestly,” she chides, “didn’t I tell you to come see me when you started feeling like this?” 

She helps him up and into his room. She gives him something foul to drink. 

She doesn’t tell him he’s running out of time. 

* * *

Felix Hugo Fraldarius is going to die. 

He knows it even before he heads to the training grounds and tries to swing his sword, only to find that his arm is too weak. He’s forced to acknowledge it when he drops his sword and fails to pick it back up. He has no choice but to face it when he cannot make his way out of the training grounds because he’s too tired to remain on his feet. 

Felix is going to die a pointless death. 

“Here, let me help you,” Mercedes says when she finds him sitting on the ground some time later, retrieving his sword for him and then helping him to his feet. “You should lie down for a while. Let me bring you to your room.” 

Felix grunts his assent because Mercedes’ help is preferable to the help of anyone else. At least she is composed upon seeing him in this state; at least she doesn’t seem to want to offer herself up to him. She supports his weight all the way back to his room, and then helps him into bed. 

Of course, she doesn’t leave after that, because it’s never that simple with anyone. She takes a seat on the bed. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No.” 

“That’s what I thought,” she replies to his silence, all calm smiles and understanding. “What if I talk instead?” 

Felix glares, but he doesn’t stop her. It doesn’t seem worth his dwindling energy, and Mercedes at least knows how to speak sensitively about difficult issues. 

“I know these past few days have been hard on you,” she begins, breaking eye contact with him as she speaks, likely for his benefit rather than her own. “I heard that everyone has been trying to help you, and while their hearts are in the right place, I think it’s only made this situation feel worse for you. Am I right?” 

“I’m fine,” Felix tells her, despite lying in bed barely able to do much more than protest weakly. 

Mercedes hums softly. “I know it has been uncomfortable for you. But it’s uncomfortable for them, too. They’re only trying to help you because they don’t want you to suffer.” 

Felix inhales, his breath shuddering through his lungs. Even that makes him feel tired, his chest heavy. “I don’t want anyone else to suffer,” he admits, looking at the wall instead of at Mercedes. 

“Oh, Felix." Her voice goes dips in empathy. “Who is this about?” 

"No one." He already regrets saying as much as he did. 

Too perceptive for her own good, Mercedes asks, “Is it...Sylvain?” 

He doesn’t answer. 

“Okay.” She pauses in consideration. “Whoever it is, you should tell them that” 

“I can’t.” The word is rough on his tongue, uncomfortably forced out through his lips. 

Felix can spout-off about anything at length — sword technique, Dimitri, the idiocy involved in chivalry. The problem isn’t his willingness to talk, it’s how his words end up coming out laced with anger and frustration, meant to hurt a person into action. This situation is already difficult enough; he doesn’t need another layer of complication on top of it. 

“Well, words aren’t the only way to communicate. Why don’t you show them instead?” Mercedes suggests. 

“Show them,” he sarcastically repeats. Felix feels done with this conversation. He closes his eyes to indicate he is no longer interested in speaking with her about this. 

Mercedes doesn’t seem to mind. She takes her cue to leave. “I would hug you,” she says as she stands. “But I know you wouldn’t like that. Take care, Felix.” 

Once she’s gone, Felix reaches for the book that Ashe left for him. He opens it up and skims the story. According to the tale, a knight, enraptured by strange magical flowers, is driven mad with desire. Afraid of forcing himself on someone, he decides to isolate himself, knowing that he will eventually die from his malady. Once he’s wandered into the wilderness, however, he discovers that he isn’t alone. He’s been followed by a fellow knight, a friend from childhood, who refuses to allow him to die. 

“Idiot,” Felix grumbles, tossing the book to the side. He isn’t sure if he means the knight, his friend, or Ashe for trying to convince him the story could help. 

* * *

When Felix wakes up from a nap he didn’t mean to take, Sylvain is at his bedside, sitting in a chair that he dragged over. 

“Hey,” Sylvain greets him, his voice light but expression grim. “I thought you were going to sleep the day away.” 

Felix feels like he could, but he forces himself into a sitting position. Sylvain immediately stands to help him, propping him up against the pillows. 

“Why are you here?” Felix asks, his voice weaker than he wants it to be. 

“Do you want water or anything?” Sylvain offers, deflecting the question. 

Felix shakes his head, then cringes as his headache makes itself known again. 

Sylvain hovers at his bedside, uncharacteristically nervous. 

“What?” Felix has an idea of what’s coming. He tries to brace himself. 

“I screwed up.” Instead of returning to his chair, Sylvain sits on the bed next to him. “The one thing I needed to not screw up.” 

Felix rubs his forehead. He thinks of dumb knights that don’t pay attention to their surroundings and wind up affected by strange pollen. He thinks of equally dumb childhood friends who’d rather put themselves in harms way than allow their friends to die peaceful deaths. 

“Let me try again.” Sylvain reaches with his hand, as if he wants to touch Felix’s cheek, perhaps brush his loose hair out of his face, but catches himself and drops it back into his lap. “Please, Felix. I can’t watch you die.” 

Felix also thinks of dumb childhood promises that have no business in adulthood, made long before they understood the weight of commitment and the burden of death. 

“Sylvain.” Felix tries to shift, to make room for Sylvain beside him, but he barely moves before his breathing becomes labored and the edge of his vision darkens. 

“Don’t.” Sylvain does touch him now, hand to chest, in an attempt to stop him. He gets to his knees so he can help Felix move. 

As soon as he’s close enough, Felix uses what little energy he has to grab Sylvain’s shirt and pull him closer. 

If this were that stupid book that Ashe gave him, the next moment would play out beautifully. Felix would take Sylvain into his arms and explain how he feels. Sylvain would open his heart to Felix and together they would fix everything with a kiss that ends the scene, the rest of the details left to the imagination, the happily ever after strongly implied. 

This is what happens: 

Felix jerks Sylvain forward. Off balance, Sylvain topples into him, grunting under his breath. As he tries to plant his hand on Felix’s side in an effort to push himself up, Felix grabs his chin, hoists his head up as best he can, and presses their lips together. 

The kiss is not romantic. It’s sloppy, awkward, and entirely embarrassing. Sylvain tries to talk through Felix’s lips. Their teeth bump against each other more than once. When Felix tries to encourage Sylvain to shut up with his tongue, he ends up licking the corner of his mouth. 

Felix releases Sylvain’s chin, expecting Sylvain to pull away, to look at him with wide eyes as he rubs the back of his neck and laughs this off like he does most things. He tenses, waiting for it. 

Sylvain does not break the kiss. He does not reintroduce space. Instead, he stops trying to talk. He adjusts his position without pulling back and ends up straddling Felix, one leg on either side of him, supporting his own weight so as not to put pressure on Felix’s body. The kiss transitions into something tender — Sylvain’s tongue finds Felix’s and moves with expert care, not too forward, but not too gentle either. Felix feels breathless as he tries to match Sylvain’s pace. 

It feels better than it should, an action performed under duress and yet enough to make Felix shiver as new energy finds its way throughout his body. It feels like a kiss of strength as Sylvain’s thumb traces Felix’s cheekbone. It feels like the kiss of life as warmth spreads from Felix’s core outward. 

He doesn’t know if it’s the magic responding to Sylvain or if his body has just realized that it has been starved of kind touch for too long, but as Sylvain guides his lips downward, across Felix’s jawline, then along his neck, Felix has to bite back a moan. 

He has to keep himself in control. 

Because even though he wants this, now for more than mere survival, this still isn’t how he wants it. This is still Sylvain performing, still Sylvain offering himself up as a tool. 

Now, at least, Felix has enough life restored to him that he can surprise Sylvain by pushing him back against the bed, clumsily switching positions. Sylvain lies beneath him and Felix straddles him, looming over him as Sylvain props himself up on his elbows. 

“I’ll be whatever you need,” Sylvain murmurs, attempting to kiss Felix again. 

“Can’t you just be you?” Felix asks impatiently, turning his head to avoid the kiss. As soon as his arousal flags in response to Sylvain’s poor attempt at pillow talk, Felix can feel his health flagging, too, as though the two are linked. He places a hand on the bed to keep himself upright, steels his mind and body both so he can touch Sylvain with his other hand, palm set against his chest, attempting to push him downward again. 

Sylvain laughs, an empty and hollow sound. “Come on, you don’t want that.” He allows Felix to push him back, his hands already finding their way to Felix’s shirt, ready to pull him free of it. 

Felix shoves his hands away; as his frustration mounts, what little health he regained fades. He sways forward; Syvlain’s eyes go wide as he braces Felix upright, then eases down him until he holds Felix in a loose hug, rubbing his back. Felix rests his forehead against Sylvain’s shoulder and tries to take deep breaths. 

This back-and-forth is exhausting. 

“You want me to be real?” Sylvain asks, his voice retaining that hollow, self-deprecating quality, inching toward something darker, a contrast to the way his hands rub gentle circles along Felix’s back. “It should have been me.” 

“Well it isn’t,” Felix speaks against his shoulder. 

“It isn’t,” Sylvain echoes. Felix feels him sigh. 

A silence stretches between them. Felix remains in his arms. Sylvain doesn’t move, save for the rise and fall of his chest. 

“I haven’t, you know,” Sylvain confesses after some time passes. “Since coming back here.” 

“Haven’t what?” Felix asks, wondering if he’ll ever have the strength to get up again. It feels like he’s rooted to the bed, to Sylvain, stuck until he breathes his last. 

“Slept with anyone.” He exhales a bitter laugh. “How could I?” 

Felix hadn’t known that. He and everyone else around them had assumed that Sylvain kept up with his old ways once Garreg Mach had been repopulated. Sylvain had done nothing to dispel those rumors. 

“But I want this.” Sylvain’s hands find their way under Felix’s shirt. His touch is gentle along Felix’s back, teasing along his ribs. “I want you.” 

Felix whispers, “Shut up,” and closes his eyes. Sylvain is lying; Sylvain just wants him to live. Even so, his body responds. Arousal and energy both reignite as Sylvain dips his fingers just under the waistband of Felix’s pants — a hint and nothing more. “Don’t give me a line.” 

“It isn’t a line.” Sylvain presses his lower body up against Felix, letting him feel that he, too, is experiencing a stirring of interest. “What do I have to do to make you believe me?” 

Felix sits up again — stays like that for a minute, Sylvain’s fingers still hooked into his pants, while he catches his breath. Then he takes Sylvain’s wrists in his hands and pins them to the bed, one on each side of them. “Don’t touch me.” Sylvain stills, tensing beneath Felix, and Felix feels his stomach plunge — already, he’s doing this wrong. “For now,” he adds belatedly. “Just — for right now.” 

Sylvain grins, then, though Felix is positive it's for show. “Kinky,” he murmurs. “Sure, okay. I’ll keep my hands off.” 

There are ways to go about doing this that are more seductive than Felix’s approach, but he’s less concerned with being alluring than he is with accomplishing this in a way that isn’t harmful for Sylvain — or himself, considering how he vacillates between well enough to move and nearly keeling over. So he pushes off of Sylvain and simply takes off his clothes, one layer after another, movements careful so that he doesn’t end up lightheaded again. Sylvain watches him, quiet for once, until Felix is completely naked. 

Then he works on Sylvain’s clothing. Sylvain is pliant beneath his touch, allowing Felix to coax him into a sitting position so he can remove his shirt, raising his hips when Felix works on his pants and underclothing. Felix knows that if he left this part to Sylvain, they both would be undressed a lot faster. But if he left Sylvain to his own devices, this would end up hurting both of them. 

Felix has to rest after all that activity. He sits beside Sylvain and closes his eyes. He senses Sylvain raise his hand to touch him, think better of it, then drop it again. “You okay?” he asks. 

“Fine.” Felix knows the remedy is to touch Sylvain, skin against skin — he knows it will afford him a burst of energy, enough so he can complete the task that will ultimately heal him. 

Mercedes said to _show_ , and that’s what Felix is trying to do here — that’s why he won’t let Sylvain touch him, why he needs to be the one to start this, so he can show Sylvain he's more than a means to an end. 

What he doesn’t know is how to start. Give him a sword and he can strike. Give him magic and he can cast. Give him an enemy and he can fight. But give him this — Sylvain, vulnerable and waiting — and Felix has to remind himself that he’s a man of action. 

He has to remind himself not to balk. 

He starts by touching Sylvain’s scars — most of them familiar to him. One crossing his shoulder, faded by time, acquired when they were playing with swords unsupervised many years ago. Another in the center of his chest, an injury from a battle back when they were enrolled at the Academy. One splayed across his lower abdomen, a reminder of what happens when war goes wrong, a place where Felix held him together while they awaited a healer. 

And then the scars along his ribs, several of them, small and uneven. Felix doesn’t know where those come from, but he can guess: Sylvain’s childhood gave him much that Felix missed back then, too blinded by his own superficial tears, but that one mission made clear five years ago. 

“Are you teasing me?” Sylvain asks, his voice easy, but there’s something beneath that superficial layer, something he can’t hide from Felix. 

Felix doesn’t answer. He continues to trace the map of Sylvain’s life, told in a series of jagged lines that lead him to one final fresh mark — a red, still-healing scar across his thigh. 

“What’s this from?” he asks, lightly thumbing over it. 

“Oh.” Sylvain raises himself up to look at it. “When you fell.” 

It doesn’t exactly answer the question, but it provides enough information that Felix can guess the rest. 

“Felix.” Felix looks up. Sylvain is still propped up on his elbows, frowning at him. “You should hurry. Your —” for the second time, he reaches his hand to touch, then remembers and withdraws. “Your hands are shaking.” 

Felix hadn’t realized, but when he attempts to still his hands, he sees that Sylvain is right. They are unsteady. 

But it isn’t the magic. The contact with Sylvain’s skin, the way he feels under his hands — it keeps the worst of it at bay. This is something else. 

Felix pulls his hand back as though he’s been burned. 

“Do I have to gag you, too?” he complains as a way of steadying himself. He doesn’t wait for a response. He shoves forward and kisses Sylvain again, but this time his control is better — this time his lips are kinder, his tongue more restrained. 

When he breaks the kiss, Sylvain cheats. He doesn’t touch with his hands, but he presses his cheek against Felix’s and murmurs, “You’re torturing me, Fe,” using a nickname that has been retired for years. 

“Where’s the oil?” Felix asks, ignoring his comment. 

Sylvain reaches off to the side, grabbing a vial that somehow ended up on the bed. Felix hadn’t seen him put it there, but Sylvain is crafty in matters of sex. He clearly came prepared. 

Sylvain sets it down in front of Felix. Felix picks it up. 

“This is going to feel good,” he tells Sylvain, the words uncompromising, firm, like a demand instead of a promise. 

And then he shows Sylvain. 

When he grazes his lips across the scar along his shoulder, he shows Sylvain that he remembers their distant past — that he remembers the way Sylvain covered for him when he reported to their parents, bloody but smiling as he took the blame for his injury. When he guides his lips down the scar on the center of his chest, he shows that he remembers their more recent past — the rockier days with their carefree childhood long behind them. When he kisses the scar on his abdomen, he shows that he's willing to hold him together — that he values Sylvain's life. When he touches his lips to every single scar along his ribs, he shows Sylvain that he is worthy of care and tenderness — of being treated like he matters. 

And then, when licks the newly forming scar on his thigh as he works his way further downward, he shows he is thankful for what Sylvain continues to sacrifice. 

None of this can be adequately put into words. Felix isn’t sure he’s even put it adequately into his actions. 

Sylvain is only semi-hard by the time Felix is settled between his legs, resting his head against his inner thigh, but his cock begins to respond in earnest when Felix’s breath skirts around it as he exhales, working up the strength to continue. 

“Can I take care of you now?” Sylvain asks, his voice as weak as Felix feels. “I can’t — this is —” Sylvain also seems to be struggling with words, because he changes direction. “You’re sick.” 

“I’m fine,” Felix replies stubbornly, sitting up again. He opens the vial of oil and pours some in his hand, lathering his fingers until they are nice and slick. Then he slips his hand along Sylvain’s inner thigh, skims his fingers across his balls, then slides them down his taint. Syvlain inhales sharply as Felix finds his hole and presses one finger against it. 

“Whoa —” Sylvain gasps, spreading his legs to give Felix better access. His breathing grows shallower. “Go ahead.” 

But this still feels impersonal, especially once Sylvain splays himself out like that, so instead of pushing deeper, Felix decides to lick his lips and bow his head to take Sylvain into his mouth. 

“Fuck,” Sylvain hisses as Felix’s mouth envelopes his length. “Goddess, Felix, your mouth is — it’s so warm.” 

Felix sucks Sylvain the way he polishes his swords — slow, meticulous, his mouth easing down and then back up again, his tongue circling his crown, then gliding down the rest of his length. He tries to be thorough, careful, and more dedicated than any woman Sylvain has ever taken to bed. He tries to make this feel like something worthwhile, not a task they both need to complete. 

As Sylvain’s cock fully hardens in response to this treatment, Felix feels his own cock growing firm, his own appetite whetted by the way Sylvain’s hips seem to want to buck, the way he begins to grind against Felix’s finger, silently asking him to slip it inside. 

Now it feels like Sylvain truly wants this. 

Now Felix can admit that he wants this too. 

He brings his mouth back up to Sylvain’s crown, focusing his attention there, sucking where he will be most sensitive. Sylvain moans in response, his hips thrusting only once in surprise, and just when it seems like it’s too much for him, Felix presses his finger into Sylvain’s hole. 

Sylvain cries out wordlessly, arching his body as Felix pushes it all the way in. His hands curl around Felix’s blanket. “More,” he breathes, his body gripping Felix's finger as it moves within him. 

Felix eases his mouth off of Sylvain’s cock, careful not to push him too close to the edge. Instead of sucking, he now drags his tongue across the slit, then slowly licks downward to the base. He pushes another finger inside Sylvain, who moans so long and loud that Felix is nearly brought out of his own reverie to consider who might be listening. 

“One — _ah_ — more,” Sylvain gasps. 

Felix pulls back his fingers to accommodate this request, pushing all three back inside at once as best he can. Sylvain whines and reaches for him, hand hovering. 

“You can touch,” Felix allows, realizing his own voice is unsteady, quavering in the same way that Sylvain’s legs are shaking now. He expects Sylvain to grab his hair or guide his head back down to his cock, but Sylvain only finds his unoccupied hand and squeezes it as he grinds down on Felix’s fingers. 

They continue like that — holding hands, Felix stretching him, Sylvain grinding — until Sylvain pants, “Okay. I’m ready.” He breathes in deeply and slows the roll of his hips. “I’m ready for you.” 

Felix carefully pulls his fingers away. Sylvain shivers once he's left empty, a whimper on his lips. 

As Felix he gets to his knees to apply the oil to his cock, he realizes he feels okay. He feels healthy — aroused and energized. He hesitates, kneeling there with oil in hand, Sylvain’s breath coming in short bursts as he lies before him, waiting. 

Maybe, he thinks, that was enough to break the magic’s hold over his body. Maybe they can stop here, before it goes too far. 

Sylvain sits up and shifts closer. He gently takes the vial from Felix’s hand, pausing to tuck some of Felix’s hair behind his ear. “Let me help you now,” he murmurs, somehow sounding calm and collected despite the state he was in just a moment prior. He kisses Felix on the cheek, so chaste Felix can feel his face heating in response, the tenderness of the gesture feeling far more intimate than what they just did. 

“I don’t need help,” Felix argues belatedly, but he doesn’t try to take the vial back. 

Sylvain pours some of the oil on his palm, then rubs it on Felix’s cock. It feels too good — Felix bites his lip as he sucks in air. Sylvain must notice, because he kisses Felix to occupy his mouth as he runs his hand up and down his cock, getting it nice and slick. 

“There,” he murmurs once he breaks the kiss, lightly stroking Felix up and down. “All set.” 

Felix still hesitates. 

With his free hand, Sylvain tips Felix’s chin up — looks him in the eye and says, “I want this.” 

Felix has to keep himself from looking away. “Then lie down.” 

Sylvain releases Felix and runs his hand over his own cock, keeping himself primed. “How?” 

“On your back.” 

Sylvain does as he is told, spreading his legs and pulling them back toward his body, presenting himself for Felix without shame. When Felix doesn’t immediately follow, Sylvain says, “It’s kind of like sparring. You can think of it as fighting.” 

Felix scoffs as he positions himself between Sylvain's legs, setting the head of his cock against his hole, ready to press into that tight warmth. Sylvain takes a deep breath and smiles encouragingly. 

It is like fighting, Felix thinks. It’s like fighting, but not in opposition of each other. It’s fighting together against themselves — all their inner demons and hangups. He’s fighting Sylvain’s lack of self-worth; Sylvain is fighting his issues with intimacy. They are guiding each other through this, battling every step of the way. 

Felix slowly pushes his cock inside. 

Even after prepping him, Sylvain is still so tight. Felix barely gets the tip of his cock inside before he has to pause to catch his breath, overwhelmed by the way Sylvain feels around him, the heat of his body driving all thoughts out of his head. He closes his eyes and blindly reaches for something to hold on to — finds Sylvain’s hand again, which accepts him, grips him tightly, keeps him grounded. 

Sylvain, too, is equally overcome, breathing in stuttering gasps as Felix moves again, urging himself deeper. He moans when Felix pauses a second time, and Felix has just enough presence of mind to notice his hips attempt to roll, then stop, tense and waiting, as though Sylvain is barely hanging on to his own threadbare control. 

Deeper still, Felix pushes, and then he’s finally entirely inside of Sylvain, who shudders beneath him. Felix leans forward until his forehead is nearly touching Sylvain’s chin — until he feels his breath on his brow. 

Every subtle movement provides so much of that warm, slick friction that Felix can't bring himself to move at first. He remains still and savoring, Sylvain quivering in anticipation beneath him. 

When he trusts himself to do so, he looks up and sees that Sylvain, for the first time throughout this entire ordeal, looks genuine — sweaty and overwhelmed, wearing a lopsided smile meant to be reassuring but appears more openly insecure. 

Felix tries not to think about what his own face must look like. 

Sylvain does something — tenses or shifts — and he feels a clenching around his cock that makes him shut his eyes and see a burst of colors. It feels too intense, like any more sensation might tip the scales into overstimulation. Sylvain slowly, encouragingly bucks his hips, and a whine scrapes its way out of Felix's throat. 

He moves, then, cautiously at first, long thrusts that elicit a groan from Sylvain, causing him to close his eyes now, while his hands move to grab Felix’s hips, then squeeze his ass. “Y-yeah,” he stutters as Felix quickens his thrusts. “Harder — I...I can take it.” 

“Don't,” Felix keens, because his voice will not be tempered, because he’s fucking Sylvain in earnest now and he has no restraint over himself anymore. He loses the rest of his protest to a gasp and bows his head again. This time his lips settle over Sylvain’s collarbone, and his teeth find Sylvain's skin — not due to a conscious decision, but rather, for want of some way to channel how he feels. It makes Sylvain writhe with pleasure — he murmurs something incomprehensible, his shoulder shoving forward to encourage more. 

Felix bites him again, harder this time, and he bucks his hips again, harder as well. 

They’re both moaning now, Sylvain no longer able to form words, Felix barely able to think. Sylvain keeps one hand on Felix’s ass, but the other he moves between them to stroke himself. For several, stretching moments, they exchange only grunts and moans as they reach their climax. 

Sylvain comes first, crying out as his body jerks, decorating both of their bodies with a warm rush of cum. He says something that sounds like a broken version of Felix’s name, panted out at the height of his pleasure, and then his hand slows, easing himself through the final waves of pleasure. 

His orgasm is enough to drive Felix to the brink, because as soon as Sylvain is riding it out, he’s clenching around Felix’s cock so firmly that one final thrust is all it takes for him to come. Embarrassing sounds tear through his throat as he pitches forward, losing himself to his orgasm so completely, he doesn’t realize that he’s digging his nails into Sylvain’s arm until it’s over — until he’s trembling in Sylvain’s embrace. 

Sylvain, who's murmuring to him, who's saying _It’s okay, it’s okay_ over and over again, like he expects Felix to fall apart in the aftermath. 

Or maybe Sylvain is reassuring himself, because when Felix shakily extracts himself from Sylvain, carefully pulling himself away, Sylvain looks as wrecked as Felix feels. There’s no easy smile covering up his broken expression — he simply looks spent, overcome, and openly unsure. 

They clean up quietly. Sylvain prepared for this part, too, having set water and a cloth beside the bed while Felix was sleeping. They wipe themselves down without speaking, and only after the evidence of what they’ve done is cleared does Sylvain break the barrier that should be reconstructed between them. He places his palm against Felix’s forehead, then lightly runs his knuckles down Felix’s cheek. 

“You’re fever broke,” he observes. 

Felix feels raw in body and mind. Something definitely breaks when Sylvain touches him, but it has nothing to do with the fever that has been dispelled. This is something else, something fragile dragged up to the surface, forced into the open, shattering into pieces. 

Felix has always felt too much and he has never understood what to do with the burden of emotion. In childhood, he cried constantly under the pressure of all his too-large feelings; now, in adulthood, he wields anger and spite like his sword because if he doesn’t, he will be crushed under the weight of all of it — of his concern for Dimitri, of the loss of his father, of the way Sylvain is looking at him right now. 

“Stop,” Felix chokes out, though he isn’t sure if he means himself or Sylvain. 

“Okay,” Sylvain replies, unquestioning. He begins putting on his clothes, turning away, shutting down. 

Felix grabs his own shirt and twists it in his hands. “Are you leaving?” he asks. 

“That’s the cardinal rule of one night stands,” Sylvain replies with feigned cheer. “Don’t overstay your welcome.” 

Felix pulls his shirt over his head, thinking that if he can put his layers back on, he might feel less exposed. Similar to the way Sylvain seems to feel better once he’s fully clothed, turning around to look at Felix with a carefree smile. 

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Sylvain tells him. 

Something lurches within Felix’s chest. “You’re an idiot.” 

Sylvain laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I get that a lot.” 

It doesn’t work — once he’s clothed, Felix feels no less raw. He looks down at the floor, at the vial of oil, the discarded wet cloth. 

Sylvain moves to leave. Felix crosses the bed and grabs his arm. “You should stay,” he says through clenched teeth, forcing the words out. 

“Nah,” Sylvain replies. “Get some sleep.” 

Felix tightens his grip. His breathing turns shallow, unsteady. “Sylvain.” 

If he leaves now, then what? They return to their lives, Felix healed, Sylvain used and discarded? Felix feels bile rise to the back of his throat. His sword hand aches for a weapon. 

“You’re making this hard for me,” Sylvain whispers, a pained laugh ghosting across his lips. 

“Lie down,” Felix tells him. He thinks, _Please_. 

“Okay, okay.” Sylvain moves slowly, freeing his arm, getting back on the bed, lying down as he’s been told. He positions himself at the edge, facing the wall, turned away from Felix. “There.” The word is spoken easily, but his body is taut, curled into itself — protecting itself. 

Felix lies beside him. He awkwardly presses his body against Sylvain and takes him in his arms as best he can, wrapping himself around Sylvain to hold him, to _show_ him. 

Silence. 

Then: “You don’t have to hold me so tightly.” Sylvain’s palm rests atop Felix’s arm. “I’m here.” 

“Stop talking,” Felix says to his back. “Go to sleep.” 

It takes a long time within this awkward position — with Felix's uncompromising hold, with Sylvain’s shoulders subtly shaking as he takes an unsteady breath, with the way a knot forms inside of Felix’s chest and refuses to loosen. 

But eventually, they fall asleep. 

* * *

“I’ll go first,” Sylvain whispers, as he pulls Felix to the side. 

Everyone is gathered in the dining hall, speaking in hushed tones, undoubtedly worrying themselves over Felix, who would be close to death by now, were it not for Sylvain. 

The morning had been awkward, waking up next to each other, Felix’s arm still tucked around Sylvain, Sylvain’s hand tangled in his sleeve. But the morning had also provided the clarity of a good night’s sleep — the realization that as open and raw as they had been, the world had not ended. Their friendship had survived. They had managed to stick it through and find comfort in one another. 

Sylvain had joked, Felix had grumbled, and it felt like everything would be okay. 

Now Sylvain tries to push forward without Felix, to keep their momentum going without dragging it down with awkward revelations. 

Felix means to grab his wrist, but he ends up grabbing his hand instead. “Don’t be an idiot. We can walk into the dining hall together.” 

Sylvain’s eyes search him. “If we do —” 

“This is nothing compared to the past few days.” Felix says it resolutely. Arriving with Sylvain and announcing his well-being can’t be more awkward than any of the conversations since his malady became public knowledge. 

Felix lets go of Sylvain’s hand, but they walk into the dining hall side by side. 

The group falls quiet as they enter. Felix stops in front of their table and announces, “I’m fine.” 

“Like, for real fine, or Felix-fine? Because those are two different things,” Annette points out. 

“For real fine,” Sylvain supplies so Felix doesn’t have to. 

Everyone looks from Felix to Sylvain. Expressions shift, realization settles. But no one puts it into words. 

“I’m so relieved,” Mercedes says, smiling. 

Felix takes a seat at the end of the table, across from Dimitri, who will not look at him. 

Sylvain sits next to Felix, careful not to sit too close. 

“Thank you,” Felix makes himself say to the group at large. “For helping.” 

“Of course!” Ashe exclaims. 

“We’re just glad you’re okay,” Ingrid tells him. 

“Yes,” Dedue agrees. “You look much better.” 

Dimitri’s one eye is staring at the table. “I am sorry. I did not think when —” 

“Don’t you dare,” Felix snaps. 

“I must apologize —” Dimitri tries again. 

“Enough. I know what you were doing.” Dimitri had been trying to help in his own, boar-like way, with the rusty social skills of someone who is just starting to come back to himself after years of being lost. Felix is not so stubborn that he fails to see that. “The ‘thank you’ was for you too. Don’t make me say it again.” 

Dimitri raises his eye. Then he nods his acceptance, the issue settled with a murmured, “I won’t.” 

“Good.” 

“Can we eat now?” Ingrid asks. 

“I’ll get the plates,” Ashe announces as he stands. 

“I will help.” Dedue joins him. 

Under the table, Felix reaches out his hand. Sylvain finds it, accepts it, grips it tightly and keeps him grounded. 

Felix squeezes back. 

Sylvain smiles at him. For one fleeting moment, it looks genuine. 

Then Ashe and Dedue return to hand out the plates.


End file.
